In that black dress,
you look like a million bucks,
and soon within my hands,
I will hold every dime of you.

I'm a rich man,
and elated that
this wealth corrupts.

I exit the beige bedroom with no blood on my chin,
Jesus sensations through fallout cigarette,
God grows old - ashes and finds cradle within wind,
Holy Ghost of perpetual memory chains wrist,
winks from across the corridor on tram # 11,
circuital -

if you come searching, my thorn-eyed love,
I'm where I always was.

I cobweb like Christ on a mobile cross,
I've seen that old library, that gated community penitentiary,
even that blackbird over and over and over again -

heaven.

In heaven, my thorn-eyed girl, arrived.

There's nowhere to go from here.

Jake was a pussyhound in a city of *****.
"Hey man, can I ask for some advice"
--a common conversation-starter device;
I riddled his brain with disdain,
he armored up--
the ignorance card draining from his sleeve.
He once taught me a lesson greedily kept celestial.
Purely accidental--
lost in the beginnings of spring,
he strolled into my daydream,
sharpened his fingertips on my shoulder blades,
my heart struggled to beat under my mind's premonition--
"I ****** Susie, Sally, and Sam. Satan's summer in a bedroom--
needless to say, I was enthralled."

As the landscape of their bodies took shape
in my shuddering skull, the cancer took.
Details--details, more details, pretty please,
conquest, conquest, more, more,
gimme more.

Mama,
I'm growing horns.
I speak in smoke,
it fogs the retinas of
every green-eyed girl
with something to lose.

Mama,
my smile grows sharper.
I relish in rolling eyes,
discovering the enemy gene,
shooting the **** with the ******,
plotting revenge on every Shiva.

Mama,
deny my black irises and hungry crystal hands.
I'm looking for grey leaves to crush,
I'm looking for heathen hymns to memorize,
tasting bleak humanity with each handshake,
and half-*** suicide attempt.

Mama,
in kaleidoscope memories you will find me.
Distort your love in retrospect,
sell my stories to distant, dusty cousins,
lie until i had a heyday,
but don't waste a prayer or a wish upon me.

I turn off the phone,
throw the television set
against the wall,
a knife of the electronic
debris cuts into me,
as my cheek begins to bleed,
I scour the shelves for the
whiskey I need--
I cleanse my wound,
and douse your former future groom,
I hit play,
find a hit melody
to take me marching through the parade--
my hands feel perfectly pyro
as the match sweetly scathes,
in the morning I will wake to find peace--
for now, I'll close my lids
and
dance in my own flames.

white walls,
the cackling night,
festering liquor,
and a chance to break from my landlocked liturgy
collapse on the fine-toothed grass.

my head -- a dark carnival of shared substances --
smolders at the grind of its gears,
as my Black Venom mistress dribbles
drunkspeak for an hour, and aimless
boys find holographic truth
in a hallucinagenic bathroom --
"we should mean less than this."

close the door to bedroom crypt--
"you've got to die to be born again"--
Black Venom undresses me
while the shutters of perception
rattle open, then closed, open, closed, open--
a grey wind and erratic desire fire, fall, pant,
realign to destroy body in the name
of a newness to follow--
if I'm mad,
I'm quite good at it--
if I'm sane,
I have no intention of staying that way.

Come to me bruised and frayed,
bird of prey.
Death's hour can wait,
I'd like to hope for your wings,
I'd like to hope for your seams.

If you're bleeding, dear,
I'll press against until the red stills.
If you're crying, dear,
I'll drink tears until you find your will.

Come to me bitter and dismayed,
bird of prey.
Love's hour can wait,
I'd like to lift your tattered remains,
I'd like to make you holy in the eye of a god.

If you're hungry, dear,
I'll give up my feathers.
If you're lonely, dear,
I'd like to flock together.

With our backs to her bed,
Lady Brett and I had a picture
taken and sent--
our chance: then--
brief and spent,
oh how my fingers
went fidgeting,
begging for a start
or
an end--
from time to time
they still do,
when I drink the milky
skin of fabricated twin--

In sighing, cracked parking lot,
lit by tired moon--
Lady Brett glanced over shoulder
as I cashed kiss,
turned and fled--
a weary drive
lit by bent cigarettes
and a whispered,
"goodbye lioness."

I long to transfuse
Lady Brett's cynical spine
with two bottles of wine--
an evening in ether,
a ballroom bedroom heater,
until all yesterdays
discard,
carried by wind,
obliterated in sawmill,
scatter across new babes,
seed,
a lesson in imminent sin.

But Lady Brett
and I,
will scheme more than abide
will degrade more than refine
will die more than find
fruition--
all our ashy, planned action--
a century apart,
125-miles too soon.

Mom shot Jake's cat
with the screen door open,
with dirtied snow covering the
gravel drive. And Jake, bless
his little soul, watched from
the door frame as Dad took
over, snagging the bloodied
mess by the tail and dumping
it in the waiting grave. Mom
told Jake that's the way it is
as she opened the .410's ejection
port and deposited the shell into
her hand. She gave it to him.
A memento. Jake didn't know this
word at the time but years later,
four to be exact, he'd look up
memento for a spelling test,
and think of Dad piling loose dirt,
tiny sticks, and snow on the cat
while he, Jake, stared at the
discharged shotgun shell,
still warm in his hand.

Living in the gaudy, arrogant buckle of the bible belt
is a constant crucifixion for the unconventional thinker.

I'm afraid the bombs will never fall,
the summer girls will never return my calls.

I'm afraid I won't claim any kills,
I'm afraid I won't ask when they hand out the pills.

I'm afraid there will be no couplet,
to satisfy the end rhyme.

I'm afraid our movement
is as meaningful as an ellipsis...


All we know is the suburbs,
the mailman,
couches,
Thursday night tv.

All we know is settling down,
settling on a wife,
settling for whatever's on sale,
whatever won't send us to hell.

I'm afraid no one wants me dead,
I'll be alone in a queen-size bed.

I'm afraid Jesus won't come from the sky,
I'm afraid when she can't love me, I'll still try.

I'm afraid every rule was a crime,
all the freedom ends with the end rhyme.

I'm afraid I will drive an SUV,
I will buy my headstone, while still alive...

All we know is the pattern,
work at 9,
Coffee with Cara at 5,
in bed, sleeping pill in head.

All we know is all we know,
a flood of morals,
a cancer spat upon,
by all the greatests that went on before...

I ****** on the tips of your fingers,
you pinned me hard,
upon my chest you bit me,
"Keep it like a memory."

I will, I will,
I hold you up,
my divinity,
my epitome,
my tv screen,
my future enemy.

I undressed you in blitzkrieg,
you made it even with one blink,
upon my back you scratched deep,
"Keep it a secret."

I will, I will,
curtains always,
my prescription,
my cancer,
my ****,
my favorite season.

soft yellow lamp light,
dark blue sweat stains--
a snarl,
a birdsong,
Nadia's accusation finger,
my obituary daydream--
the tension nooses my neck,
gimme more.

Nadia ***** her eyes--
fires a machine gun's worth,
I die a thousand times,
with a smile and an unopened pack
of cigarettes--
Nadia keeps blackmailing me--
******* send the message,
I've never been more bored
of the unravel--
I've never been more sold
on arrival.

"What are you doing here?"

It was the wrong place
for pale, blonde Ms. Molly.
She was into God and other holy things
like Sundays.

2 a.m.

Everybody turned a shade of grey,
meaning nothing to me,
only Molly,
her crystal blue eyes watercolored
by murky bongwater,
at my personal Mother Superior's home.

"What?"

"I said, 'What are you doing here?'"

"Just bored, I guess."

"****. Really?"

"Yeah, this guy-um...****...Chris-no-"

"Brooks" said Brooks.

"Brooks is like a friend of mine. He sits
by me n'stuff."

Somebody put on Neutral Milk Hotel's
"O Comely" and we all sang along.
Innocent, our melody felt like
a jagged kaleidoscope.
I passed the ****, no hit for me, not tonight,
to appreciate Molly's smiles I wanted to be
coherent.

"You know, Josh, it's ******* weird."

"What?"

"That I haven't talked to you in four years,
and then we end up at the same campus,
and we are best friends."

She leaned over and kissed my smokey, worn
cheek. Her lips smooth, fine.
No one around said a word.
Everyone knew she had a man.
But are best friends allowed to
be lovers from time to time?
I ******* hope so.

"i just think it's weird people value the heart so much."

"why do you say that?"

"i mean what does it do? pump blood. big deal. i want a world where genitals are valued the same way the heart is now. think about it. they are the physical manifestation of love. that beats the crap out of pumping blood."

I ran into her briefly,
Saturday morning,
while I was coming up,
from the alcohol-laden
Friday night.

Her hair was down.
She said I looked down.
Criss-crossed her arms
about my shoulder blades,
felt them cut into her wrists,
we were at her place.

The dog kept bark-bark-barking,
the fan was roaring, rattling carrying
twenty years of noise,
I asked how her fella was.

"Eh, okay."

"Good okay?"

No response, she asked if I wanted
to watch a Disney movie.
I laughed.
Told her I had to go to a funeral.

"I'm sorry, baby."

"No, biggie. She was old. Expected."

I was sitting on the corner of her bed.
Looking at my depressing hair, and overgrown
scruff in her painted mirror, encrusted with
cheap jewelry, a sea of turquoise and islands of pink.

She put on some deep cuts by The Knife.
That's all The Knife has.
Asked if I liked it.
I said I loved it.

"Good" she grinned as she got up and flipped
the switch.
It didn't darken the room much, given
that it was closing in on 10 a.m.

She walked slowly toward me.
Ran her fingers through her hair.
Her hair was down.
She told me to stop being so down.

"That's all I know," I said with an air of arrogance.

"I'll break that," as she climbed on top of me,
planting her firm buttocks in my lap,
criss-crossed her arms,
about my blades,
told me to touch her thighs.

"I just don't have the time."

"Give me a few minutes, please."

I kissed the intersection of Molly's neck, Molly's ear,
deep exhale,
"I got to go."

"God, okay. Church tomorrow?"

"I doubt it."

The wheat yellowed, the wind chipped and chipped
until the wheat lay cheapened in broken mass;
I steered my tanned corpse through the scattered wheat.
I came to the well.
Instead of dropping a coin,
I tore a stitch and threw it into the blackness.
Instead of making a wish,
I cleared my flattering secrets from my throat and yelled.
The yell echoed downward,
bouncing off grandmother stones,
until it richocheted upward
only to have the wind carry it away like a swarm of lies.
I watched my secrets yellow like an ancient photograph,
I felt nostalgia chip and chip away,
clearing the spillway for fresh pain.
I spread my arms, a self-crucifixion,
a savior of no use.
When cruel regret and cruel change
finished with me,
I stared at the bluebird flying overhead,
just beyond him a cloudless sky.
Joy is for the living,
myself I'm kidding,
I close my eyes,
and
I'm carried away.

I know it's easy to have me.

But if I ever find my way to your pale hands,
please don't take me.

I'd like to go for a stroll
on some empty, November night.
We could complain about the missing stars,
we could quietly sing old soul songs.

And if we get a hotel room,
I'd like to sleep in my jeans,
you can wear anything
as long as it's something.
I want to feel classy,
valued,
and I want the same for you.

I want to wrap up in sheets,
warm each other by the glow of our smiles,
I want to get my fingertips tangled in your hair,
and we'll stick to forehead kisses and whispers.

If we don't heal,
we'll at least escape,
If we can't be innocent
we can at least fake.

It's a sing-a-long,
to some sacred, long-forgotten song.
It's a late night discussion over dark beers
about all the love that eluded,
and all the albums that we wasted.

It's a counter-culture night,
playing Dylan's Highway 61
on vinyl amidst ribbons of incense,
and blankets our grandmas made for us.

It's blacking out from Zach's concoction of
***, coke, and lime, only to wake
to Rachel's black hair and amber eyes.

It's finding joy in philosophical discussions,
in coming up with novel terms for being drunk
off our *****,
in trying to make God make sense,
in watching the sunrise at some breakfast diner.

It's holding a newborn nephew,
telling your sister you love her.

It's realizing the sweetness of time,
reminding yourself to stay alive,
sipping on co-bought wine,
developing love without clear rhyme.

It's a gift without a why.
It's a dream without an alarm clock.
It's a kindness to which you must ascribe.

coldshoulders abound,
the gowns gather moss
on the carpeted plains,
with a snaggletooth
and a plainface,
         I kiss your blue lips--
         I kiss your blue lips--
         I kiss your blue lips--
if you love him,
why do you spend your time with me--
if you love to dream,
why have you been overindulging on grief,
we can build a family,
a torrent,
a tree,
a yellow bird,
and three graves--
call it real estate,
call it legacy,
just call it more than it seems--

coldshoulders abound
circling like vultures,
circling around the maypole,
taste turns mundane,
so we bite with sharpened teeth,
so we pull hair with renewed vigor,
         I kiss your blue lips--
         I kiss your blue lips--
         I kiss your blue lips--
until the hot red liquid of time solidifies.

I found a way to make it painless, to make god good, to make myself good, to make myself god—me—Joshua Jerome Hutton, sound familiar?  

God I hope so.

I found a way to make it painless in the checkout line, while the bleary-eyed maidens of South Moore, one in front, one behind, talk 3 a.m. rallies and resurrections right through me.

I found a way to make it painless at the eternal stoplight, watching the eternal Vietnam veteran in eternal rags holding eternal cardboard, summoning crumpled bills from anyone other than me.

I found a way to make it painless during the photo shoot, a way to place my chin so thoughtfully in my hand, a way to look into the middle-distance, a way to imply self-deprecation, a way to find near perfection—only under ample light, of course.

I found a way to make it painless in the soup queue, amongst my fellow unshaven, shamed naked, shamed to the bone, shamed pure, shamed to one flybuzz drive: I must consume.

I found a way to make it painless, to make it to the center of the white space, to suspend, inking out the worst parts of me, an all caps ATTRACTION, impossible to pinpoint, all for the review of books and the cabal of the slowed-down and insane still reading the review of books.

I found a way to make it painless by never breaking eye contact nor speaking a word as you talk yourself deeper into what you hate about yourself, and I stir my drink with a black cocktail straw, and I clear my throat, and I hahaha to myself, and I say these little issues just seem like problems. Just wait. You just wait.

I found a way to make it painless, to eek out of my own borderlines, to meld with the air and chemtrail across the sky, to observe from a holy distance the tightrope walker, the controlled demolition, the desperate young men lagging five feet behind the elusive loves of their lives, firing every clever phrase, hoping for one to land, to glean one little pause, a moment to catch up, and here, I must admit, it gives me great relief to be this removed, this far gone, this far god.

Each cause is lost,
drowned in satellite waves of radio,
buried somewhere behind
the crystal gleam of the plasma screen.

My love and I sat sidelined,
watched all our friends
aim to be different in all the same ways,
the standardization of the soul,
it's unclear if anyone can cut the seams.

Try,
we will.

Die,
we will.

Trudging through the barren wasteland
of busted marble statues,
bleeding artistic antiquity.
Starving stray dogs,
just her and me.

The vultures will circle,
the sirens will sing pop songs,
teenagers will be settling divorces,
and our heads will scream, carniverous, cancerous.

Try,
we will.

Die,
we will.

But with my love's hand in mind,
I feel no fright staring in the eyes of night.
I only dream of what beauty
we've already buried,
of what lives,
that never got lived.

he's closing in on 18.
i met him a year ago.
he talked to me for 10
minutes about his cancerous grandma,
she had misplaced her right leg
from the knee cap, down.

running into him again
was not planned.

"yeah i'm the junior baptist minister
now."

"cool."

"i had a rough year."

"why do you say that, man?"

this conversation lasted twelve minutes, twenty-six seconds.
he had fallen in love.
a real religious lady.
they went to church.
ate after church dinner.
8 months of together.
then out the blue,
they had a heavy silent car ride.

she didn't let him in the front door,
when he got her home.
she said,
"jeremiah, i'm pregnant."

it wasn't his.

rainbow grocery,
a couple bait shops,
novelty trap parlors,
all dotted south fork.
everything was made in
old-timey, wooden cabin
fashion,
and the town knew no symmetry.


we pulled into the grocery store parking lot.
the store’s awning welcomed customers by
sagging without mercy.
we crossed the threshold,
entered into another time, space, culture.


the first sense to be stung was smell.
it smelled like cancer.
the kind that eats our grandparents
everyday in their stale, locked homes.
the woman at the register was ancient.
too old for retail.
she was clearly bitter, but
well polished in rustic hospitality.


and if i wasn’t already uncomfortable enough,
there were basketballs above the jellies on
aisle 8.
who does that?

Anna's got unsavory passion for heavy brows and bent lips.
She used to tell me, "Baby, you're so strong."
From the top of the spiral stairs, she'd sing songs.
I never felt comfortable, but I'd hum along.
The beer got cheap.
My sorrows got expensive.
The first of December, the blackbird, the rent check,
and chicken scrawl sent her into the snow.
I watched through gap'd fence.
I watched through portal
while Anna danced barefooted with a politician
who looked like Dylan Thomas, but spoke like
Don Juan.
What a wicked woman.
What a ******* cacophony.
What an icy wind.
What a fever dream.

Children,
all of me was all for you,
from towers I commended,
from basement I sympathized,
and god,
how I find all of me,
missing all your adoring stares.

I stood by,
I watched your birth in the garden
all those years ago,
and how your cries floated to heaven,
and how heaven answered with meadowlarks,
I handed you the apple,
I kissed your brow,
you would coo and grasp my coat,
I felt love, you felt vital.

I waged war,
with all the saints and arthouse critics.
We drank their blood by the moon
and our temperate speech
did flow from the fount,
under the table we were,
grew we did,
proper adolesence looking for
classical supremacy.

And Children,
I know the darkness was always creeping,
crippling every satellite, every sandy shoreline,
withering us in mirror,
you asked if the tide could claim us,
I patted your shoulder,
kissed your hand,
there is no enemy capable of victory,
oh, how the prophets betrayed me.

When your compliance was absolute,
when our neighbors pledged allegiance,
when I crushed the throats of Solomon, Gilgamesh, and
the sons of Zeus,
leagues made banners,
few made poison.

I gave you slaves,
girls, and sport.

I gave you a voice,
blankets, and victims.

The crowd and chants,
my pride and concubines,
the grass never faded,
nor the flowers wilted.

Children,
why did the publications turn against me?
I erased the existence of all you wanted dead,
I gave you dreams,
I gave plenty to sup,
plenty to remain drunk,
Children,
why did the prophets lie to me?

The priests carried daggers,
preyed upon me,
prayed for my passing-by,
the stares were there,
empty of adoration,
only hungry for my sacred blood.

I watched seas of my own,
pull down every cast,
my form laid to waste
on the streets I built under your feet.

My royal guards
chained my hands,
I could only stare at my blue veins,
my royal guards,
dragged my feet,
and in the senate they made me watch,
as my record was blotted out.

As the sun set,
the streets were lit
by effigy.

As the sun set,
I found myself in
the garden.

I stood straight,
back to a stake,
all eyes on me,
all shouts for me,
all the rage,
effigy, effigy,
they poured pitch at my feet,
they said prayers and incantations,
the flowers were in full bloom,
and the sound of buzzing flies buried
the cries.

I tried to be a friend to everyone.
Now history's vapor,
I tried to be a friend to everyone.

"I'm madly in love with you."

"I wish that could mean more."

"Me too."

Tethered to concrete,
enlightened by laptop screen,
the summer went out with a scream,
autumn ends like flicking light switch.

I'm cashing in time cards with three,
Diseased, daring to get off cheap
with three sets of teeth,
crooked spines,
and
milk thistle dreams.

The bluebirds you can keep,
over-the-shoulder vultures--my scene.
Death hands me a cup of coffee for free,
and I have written up to the ending.
I have written up to the ending.
Ending the writing,
waiting for you to compose
the siren's song--
whether in hospital gown
or naked and strapped to splintered mast,
autumn ends by flicking a switch,
while your screams echo backwards
in the chambers of my memory.

"I don't know how to say, what I want you to say."

"Please try."

Anna
with
bluebird eyes--

Anna with blue
nails about her
black fingers--

Anna with an urge
to drive those blue
nails into my
recently earned cross--

Such a pretty, pretty, pretty
thing,
you should hear her sing--

Such a pretty, pretty, pretty
thing,
you should hear her sing--

Anna
with
bluebird eyes--

Anna with a penchant
for freshly hewn
boys--

Anna with a disdain
for nobody but me--

Such a pretty, pretty, pretty
thing,
you should hear her sing--

Such a pretty, pretty, pretty
thing,
you should hear her sing--

Anna
with
bluebird eyes--

Anna with black fingers,
black skirts, black spine--

Anna with whispers,
with webs,
with cozy refuge in the
dark corners of my mind--

Take my wallet,
let me hear her sing--

Take my wallet,
let me put my picture in her locket--

Take my wallet,
Anna's what I want.

the
    blackbirds
               have gone
                     silent,

and
    the winter
            is talking
                    of revenge,

and
     in weary
               acceptance
                    i begged,

"take your toll, make this wait end."

On a flybuzz afternoon in late June, the unshaven man in corduroy everything ashes into a shoe beside the bed. He takes another drag. He half hums, half sings "Fight this Generation." Outside he hears a car alarm. He looks through the blinds. Not his. An unopened letter rests on the night stand. He looks at it and then doesn't. His phone rings for the ninth or tenth time. He picks it up and throws it at the wall. Pieces with names like RF amplifier, microprocessor, and flash memory chip divide and shower onto the hardwood floor.

An hour and half a pack of cigarettes pass. She fiddles with her key in the door.  A few failed turns then she walks into the living room, into the bedroom.

She looks at the broken phone.

"At least I told you," she says.

"I didn't read it."

"I don't care. I already told you. That was just to soften the blow, a nice thing."

"Look for the splinters. You might see where they come out."

"We already talked about this. You said you wanted to stay together. You know and I know this wasn't completely my fault."

"Yeah."

"Yeah? Yeah. Absolutely. You've got to take care of yourself. I said nice things in the letter."

"I'm not going to read the letter."

She opens the window by the bed to vent the smoke. There's another siren in the distance. Someone protected, someone hunted.

"Your life is selected," he says.

"So select yours, too."

He runs his fingers through his hair, pushing the matted mess out of his eyes.

"For you to have the life you want, I give up the one I want."

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself. We've already talked about this. We've already had this fight."

"I want to have it again."

"Why?"

"I just need to."

"You're saying the same things."

"Maybe in a general sense, but I feel like I'm saying them better."

"I'm not going to listen to you refine your arguments for the rest of my life. We already got past this."

"Already is a strange word."

She turns her back to him and heads into the living room. "Everything is strange when you think too much, when you refine," she says through the wall.

"It's something that happened before or something that came too soon yet sounds like something inclusive, all ready to fight, to die. It's strange."

"You're not ready," she says. "I'm going to stay at Amy's again tonight."

She doesn't slam the front door. She eases it closed, locks it, and leaves.

"All ready," he says to himself. "All ready."

Fast food
of love,
eating, eating, eating,
there's no discussion, no daydream or
bright-eye'd plan,
only blankets, ******* Jack rings,
and plastic floating promises
in a draining bathtub.

The blackbirds circle and sing,
while you download new ringtones,
paint your nails,
and screen.

Once you've got the knowledge,
you can't fake ignorant bliss.
Once you've got the knowledge,
it's no-hit-all-miss.

Soften you up
with promise rings,
Hallmark cards,
and confetti strings,
the ******* frees,
the ******* ease.

Once you've got the knowledge,
you can't fake ignorant bliss.
Once you've got the knowledge,
how can you love yourself?

I'm under your skin,
with my pen uncapped,
I'm the love your mind's got
on tap,
as the cigarette burns,
as the knives unfurl,
I know,
you know,
that ultimately
you're growing sore
from the impending
marital bore.

So blow up the bridge,
walk through the alleys,
let the guilt of your heart
dissolve in coffee,
the time--now,
as it's always been
because

once you've got the knowledge,
you can't fake ignorant bliss.
Once you've got the knowledge,
there's a riotous beat in your chest.

my father's name,
down the drain.

my mother's heart,
picked apart.

my old friend,
lost,
no chance to mend.

we cowards
commit our crimes
in circles.

we cowards
are blind, deaf,
yet loud.

his father, his mother,
once second parents
to me,
left sleepless and
ashamed to know
me.

a redheaded girl,
who i never had
a chance to know
let her tears go.

her mother burning,
anger at my
abuse,
deserving.

my old friend confused,
asking himself,
"was it distance that
divided us?"

we cowards,
so used to the
constant grind of our
lives,
never seek to make anew.

we cowards
let it build.
let it fall.
let the remains rust.
let our pride run wild.
let our eyes shut.
let our ears close.
let our hearts go cold.

if i thought i was dead
before,
i'm about to learn what
it really means to disappear.

i feel the judges whispering
condemnation.

i feel the pointing fingers,
the claims of high treason.

this coward is sorry.
but no apology will ever justify,
no eulogy will ever satisfy
your view of the guilty.

this coward is willing.
willing to listen,
willing to feel your pain,
willing to die,
die tonight,
if just one of you saw it
as gain.

all my tuesday nights,
turn to wednesday mornings
before i even try to sleep.

every girl i ever dreamt,
seems to be settling
away from me.

each ounce of energy in my feet,
feels as though it's being traded
for suburban formaldehyde.

all-powerful god,
stolen away by rationale,
and the omniscient google.

every old friend is giving up
on me now,
i've restarted my life too many times.

each passing glance grows to a cold stare,
the americans are wondering
why i'm still fighting it.

all i ever wanted was a piece of pure love,
every cool kid talking up my name,
each word to ring with absolute truth,

but

all i'm getting is older,
everyone getting better at overlooking,
each cell traded for cancer, each dream gone sour.

there is a
way,
  a truth,
       and a light,
and
  I'm often
    reminded,
        it isn't mine.

there is a tradition
and a constitution,
gods in powder wigs
talking through their
wooden teeth,
and I'm often reminded
my thoughts are fiction.

all new friends are quickly
old,
all parents
die of heart attacks
after analyzing high crimes.

there is a
way,
  a truth,
       and a light,
and
  I'm often
    reminded,
        it's outta my sight.

there is a piece of Anna's hair in my teeth,
there are blackbirds circling in a hollow sky,
and I'm supposed to have no doubts,
and I'm supposed to avoid shouts.

all babes get slutty or drown in bongwater,
and I'm expected to call them cute,
all patterns have a strange affinity for ******* me,
and all love is adrift in a staggering, stagnate sea.

there is a
way,
  a truth,
       and a light,
and
  I'm often
    reminded,
        I'm out of line.

All God's children,
resting on both their
knees,
doing whoever
they
please,
thrusting boredom away,
dismantling the moonbeams,
dissolving the winter wind,
with a pitiful howl.

We suckled teats,
we dragged our feet,
now we *****
black comedy,
and pace perpetual in the valley.

All God's children,
lifting their hands to the plasma screen,
drinking their own blood,
and feeling
perfectly
guilty
for it.

And if they get together
anything's possible,
whether instant infidelity or
absolute combustion.

One more way to alleviate tension,
to land mine
the curious,
to ooh,
to ahh.

The black
overtakes iris,
I scatter all writing across the room,
digging for notes
on the next chapter,
and outside
bluebirds sing
while ants crawl on their wings,
new babes suckle,
while mama texts another,
and inside--
a madhouse,
an oven--
always on,
always 425;
no respite--
her skin
invites
like late night
milk
and
she gleams
sharpened front teeth,
presents
30 poems-a-day
of **** teenage poetry--
"love me,
like you did in the beginning,
love me free"
and I stockpile
the pages
for my calendar-approved
pyre--
6 more days
and I'll let
this darkness
bend
to fire.

I buy a shirt, a blue shirt, a button down.
I drink a glass of wine, a red, a Malbec.
And I watch.
I stand still in the midst
of the St. Cloud Market.
The crowd—that singular being—
jostles and jockeys and talks
in broken English.
I chew gum, cinnamon gum, Nicorette.
I feel my habit inverting, bending, becoming mechanical.
And I must flirt and be moral
with the shopkeeper who looks a little
like me.
And I must revert to an irrational, emotional,
childlike state as I buy three pirated DVDs.

The crowd forms a circle instinctually.
Three women dance slowly in the center.
Paper falls from the sky, newsprint, a day old.

Gunfire, the sound of it, its slowing of time.
No one says a thing
and no one's feet make a sound and
every child is perfectly behaved
for one relentless moment.

An overall’d uncle stabbed over homemade champagne drifts around the bend.
A commemoration quilt and the Adamsville population shifts around the bend.

There’s an old hymn torn out of Martha’s hymnal, an elegy, a black dress.
“These details seem important,” Preacher says in European swifts around the bend.

The rains come and wash away the things we bury, bodies and toy cars.
Lowlands become lakes and a lone, malaise blackbird lifts around the bend.

A boy, all elbows and knees, in corduroy everything, in the thick of it,
drives a truck with no wipers, no license, the stick shifts around the bend.

The homes with electric lose electric, and the newspaper floats off porch.
No news today, nor tomorrow these are philanthropic gifts around the bend.

He always wanted to be one of those people, the kind that can tell a sycamore from a birch, a lily from an orchid, all without having to google it. As he finger-and-thumbs her beige blouse, he knows it isn't satin, but what the hell is it? She kisses him again, this time longer than the greeting. He thinks the name of the material starts with an R. It’s a synthetic. She ruffles the back of his hair, glides down his neck before latching to his shoulders. Of course, he’s not certain it’s a synthetic and it may start with an M. No. It’s R. R-A. Her day was good, she says. Ian was down, and Nicole was happy.  It’s the kind of fabric you hand wash in cold water. He wants to know what it’s called because everything about this moment, every loose strand of hair, the brand of her black leather boots, each elation at the corner of the mouth, and each attempt to cover up elation, must be committed to memory.

Just a few minutes earlier, she knocked a soft cadence--a cadence timeless and familiar and forever nameless, yet a cadence all her own. Not all that different from her knock nearly three years ago. She was timid then, wearing a loose, primarily red plaid shirt and black tights. Slow to drink the wine on the table. Slow to lay in the bed.

Now she takes off her blouse without pause. She wears a supportless lace bra, what he thinks of as lace, anyway. He’s not sure if that’s right. “I don’t have ***** anymore,” she says. “When you don’t have ***** you can wear these.” These? Do these have a certain name? She kisses him hard, pressing her left leg against his center. Her hair is much longer. He burrows in it. He wishes he knew the fragrance of her shampoo. It’s not coconut. Coconut he recognizes. This is subtle, like vanilla, but it’s not vanilla. He knows vanilla, too.

Along her abdomen, his fingers fall into new grooves. Three years ago, she didn't have a gut. Now she’s got even less of one. She undoes the button on his pants. He blinks. He’s pressing her against the wall. He blinks. He yanks her ******* down, presses his face into her. He blinks. She’s straddling him on the couch, her hair falling around them both. In her eyes is a look he wants to be able to describe--to pause the transfer of energy between their bodies and relate to her. But what would he say? At first, he sees eternity, but what good is that if she doesn’t believe in eternity. Then he sees their past. She’s playing a piano at her parents’. He’s just hitting keys beside her, but she continues to play, both ignoring and not ignoring him. But that’s not exactly it.

She rests her palms on the recliner. They go from behind. It’s December. It’s 2011. It’s twenty degrees. They’re half-undressed beside his parent’s out-of-sight frozen pond. Desire off the rails, going over the hill. He takes in her body. His breath is visible. Their rhythms match.

“Don’t stop,” she says. “Don’t stop.” She clenches a fistful of the recliner as soundless noise ricochets off the corners of her brain then comes together, a coagulation of tension and pain and what may or may not be love. The noise reaches its crescendo. The line between present and past disappears. What’s happening is not wholly reality, not wholly fantasy. It’s like making--it’s like ******* a ghost--she thinks. One, two tremors echo through her body.

He’s bigger, softer. He doesn't talk so much. He just looks at her like he did before. She turns around. It’s the way he looked at her when they began years ago. It’s naive. It’s hopeful. It’s discovering a million dollars free of guilt or consequence. Is it possible to fake something like that?

“Relax,” she says, meaning sit down and let her do her thing. At even the slightest touch, his body twitches. His love sounds--those yelps--are new. He grabs the pillow and covers his face. She kisses the inside of his thigh. As she did the night after he drug her into the freezing Pacific. She felt like such a part of the world. That sounds stupid, but she can’t think of a better way to say it.

He pulls her onto the couch, trying to take control. “Relax.” She gets on top. She rolls her body against his. She kisses his neck. His ear. His chest. Playfully she bites him. His eyes are wet. She’s afraid she’s hurt him, but their body--or bodies, rather, still move.

“God,” he says.

“What?”

“Just this.”

She laces her fingers underneath his neck and, leaning down next to his ear, asks, “What about this?”

What he says next sounds a lot like I love you. She wants to ask what he said. But if she heard right, what then? What is she required to say? So she doesn't ask. She rests upon his chest. He smells like he did the first night she stayed over, like mandarin and cardamom and the sour smell of the afterward. She plants her lips on his chest, conveying what she doesn't want to say out loud.

All kisses are calibrated. That’s the line. He doesn't remember what book it’s from, nor the author. Saunders or Russo, he thinks, maybe Shteyngart. I love you just rattled out of him. He didn't mean to. He means it--but he didn't mean to. Instead of saying anything, she kisses his chest for a long time. He can feel the depth, the range of her affection, but not just affection, no it’s more than that. It’s womanly love. It’s tender love. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Whatever will be, will be.
And they say this to bring you comfort.
But what was, wasn't so good.
And what is, is even worse.
What could be?
What could be if?
What could be if I?

All smiles
you were,
"humanity
was always
a lost kitten
in a city of dogs."

I wasn't sure what
you meant,
"the flies will always
be buzzing,
keeping us paranoid."

You eyed the bug,
rolled your eyes
at the buzz,
crushed him with
one blow,
"you have to take
control. The idle
man always gets
****** in the ***."

I lost myself in
a barrage of cryptic
one-liners,
and to be frank,
I'm not sure how
much of it you said,
and how much time
has made up from
within my lying head.

And now as I envision
you knitting in a small
house covered in cat ****,
I thank you for teaching
me self-preservation.
Social Darwinism.
I destroy you,
before you get the
chance to leave me.

"cease fire" spouts microphone,
hot blood on tongue,
the wheels whirl,
dramamine for my ex-girlfriends,
dramamine for my future binge--
will this time do?

"listen, listen",
nah-- there's a war on,
we've got **** to do,
dramamine for the foothills of Dakota,
dramamine for the brothels of Orleans,
will I make the sun?

the vultures feast prematurely,
the death masque,
the collegiate, the *******, and the cry--
dramamine for the funeral singer,
dramamine for the swollen shrapnel,
let's just wait for the savior.

Shreds of newspaper and pages from magazines
zigzagged toward the earth, feathering from the
high apartments down to the obsidian street.

Someone signed the treaty.

A brass band played behind a closed door.
Women, women, women.
More women than I'd ever seen in one space
shuffled or danced passed, twirling beads,
blowing kisses.

I was still ***** from the trenches.

An old man patted my back. A wordless, knowing nod.
Knowledge he understood and seemed to express, with time,
I would too. But in that moment,
in cheery Paris, all I felt: parceled and sold.

My body had become a vessel. This is something
you hear people say, "The body is a vessel,"
but I learned it, knew it; it was real to me.
I saw landmines and bullets have their way.
Boys, eighteen or nineteen, covered in ****
and puke and bile. I knew what bile was,
really knew.

A waiter outside a restaurant rushed over to me,
handed me a glass of wine. He looked at me like
he wanted me to say something.

It's just a vessel. This wasn't defeatism. This was.
The first time I got shot that's when I really
knew. I took one in the shoulder, went out the back,
shattered my collar bone. Pieces of me were missing.

A little girl, mousy and brunette, much like my own
niece, wrapped her arms around my leg as I walked down
the street. Eased her off. Set her feet back on the ground.
She curled her thumb and forefinger together with both hands, a pantomime of a pair of glasses. I did the same.

She lived entirely in her body.
She's endlessly fascinated by how her fingers bent and straightened,
by how far and fast her legs could carry her, the uncompromising
world, a child's ownership of time.

I wasn't floating above my body. It wasn't a bird in a dream.

When I returned home I was always off to the side, suffering
each sensation and conversation obliquely. This wasn't negative.
In a way this was a freedom: I was not a body; I was shapeless,
shifting, liquid in the hands of perceived reality and aging moments.

The girl took my hand, led me down a series of alleys until we reached
the Seine. She pointed. Men lit fireworks on the dock. They ran a safe distance.

Lines of incarnadine light shot upwards. One stream, however, fired crooked, almost a forty-five degree angle. When the fireworks sounded, all but the stray erupted invisible to the viewers, tucked away within the grey clouds. The rogue, much to the crowd's delight, exploded and scattered just above the water. A collective Ahhh. A soft fizzle.

It was strange and didn't register as a serious request. She wanted to take care of me. Nothing ******. Just a meal here and there, maybe a little tidying up of the house.

She wanted me to talk. And that part, the talking, always felt transactional, a repayment of her cleaning and cooking. She didn't ask questions. Just nudged me on with emphatic nods in the living room, sitting six feet away from me in a stray office chair. She listened as if I were recounting a past life of her own.

I told her once I loved her little feet, especially in those heels. The next week she wore sneakers. She was older but not old, fifty or so. Two children a few years younger than myself.

She made a point of not staying past ten or drinking more than a single glass of wine.

I was always a little embarrassed by the state of the house. The ***** clothes strewn across the room indistinguishable from the clean. Earmarked novels, long novels, the kind you could bludgeon a person to death with, gathered dust on the coffee table, the desk, the kitchen counter. She touched them, fascinated by what secrets or sage advice might lay within, but she never read a page.

One night I realized I'd never said her name out loud. And she said, "That's impossible. Of course you have." But neither of us could think of a particular moment. And just when I was about to, she said, "Why break the streak?"

We grew more comfortable with one another. She wore less makeup and let her age show. She'd show up in sweatpants. Some nights we'd order Chinese and play that familiar game where every fortune is punctuated with "in bed." A stranger will change your life forever tomorrow in bed. Lies lead to great calamities in bed. So on.

We called them dates, our lunches in the break room, taken each day around 2 p.m. She would bring me leftovers from the night before, always making a point of saying something like, "My husband just couldn't finish it."

She brought baked ziti on a Wednesday last March. I told her it was the best I'd ever eaten as I forked it out of the tupperware container, the edges still hot from the microwave. She said she hadn't been intimate in two years.

"Is that possible?"

"It is."

*** didn't transpire immediately. We worked up to it.

I liked the way she directed me. I'd never experienced anything quite like it. She'd tell me to touch myself while she held me in her arms, she'd snag a handful of my hair, she'd dig her nails into my thigh, but her words were always beautiful, whispered, tender, spoken in the sacred and profane language of lovers.

I'd come and she'd make a comment about the quantity, comparing it to her husband's.

In the serene afterglow before we toweled ourselves off, I'd rest my head against her breast, and I'd say, "I could stay here forever."

"Every man I've ever slept with has said that."

"How many men have you slept with?"

"Has anyone ever liked the answer to that question?"

"I don't mind. We could compare data."

"Including you?"

"Including me."

"Two."

She crawled out of the bed and turned on some music, Neil Young, "A Man Needs a Maid."

"I always felt guilty for liking this song," I said.

"Me too," she said.

We drank coffee on the back porch before the sun came up. "There was a man," she said, "before I married. He was an artist, a painter. We were in college and I loved the deliberate way he spoke. He'd think, sometimes for a full minute, before he said anything. There was a softness in his voice that required you to pay closer attention to him. Your voice is not all that different."

The Department of Transportation began tearing down the houses in my neighborhood to make room for an additional two lanes of traffic. By October mine was the only house left on the block. The apocalypse in miniature. We'd drive by piles of brick and fencing and she'd begin to cry.

It was a particularly brutal winter, and she buried her car in mud and snow when she tried to back out of the yard on the day of her son's graduation. I offered to drive her.

"No, no, no no no."

We sat in the snow, our backs against her car. She leaned in and said, "Your cologne is new."

"Yes."

"You've cut your hair."

"Yes."

"Your shirt, it's actually ironed."

Silence for a beat.

"Who is she?"

it don't matter,
how many times bat the lashes,
the monsoons, the misery, or malice.
it don't matter,
which god or when,
Molly will stick to the dark side of
"I love you"
until she ends.

here we go again
i **** my head
and ready my
mouth to fire
back
rebuttals.

the smoke of
silence,
following
your verbal
onslaught
pours through
my pores
and pulls
my
trigger.

the anger-driven
bullets
fly fast and
pick apart
your metal
heart.

your eyes grow
heavy and shaky.

there's sorrow and
violence tucked behind
them.

part of me is
frightened.

part of me
is aching
for return
fire.

your volley is
scattered.
as if you are grasping
for straws.
desperate to wreck
me
for the
sheer
drama
of the event.

i drop my gun.
give peace a chance, i suppose.
i turn, decide
it's
time
to
go.

but before i retreat
you ask me,
"how many others have you said
i love you to?

this is you at your most masochistic.
the answer is an automatic grenade
to the heart.
you know that.
yet you ask that.

"four"
i lie.
the number is much higher.

"who were they?"

god,
you're just asking
for it.

i **** my head
and we go
to war.

while reading the paper,
i came across an article
about
one of those messed-up
mamas
that leave their baby
to melt
in the backseat.

turns out the mom
went to elementary school
with me.

hadn't talked to her for years.

i did the only rational thing i could think of,
i added her as a friend on facebook.

Each morning I tune into my mirror,
watch
as life gets old.
And I wonder if anyone ever did it better to this point.
Handled it with more strength or integrity.
If I'm the worst or the best,
or the grey or the barnacle suckling the grey.
Each morning while stuck in traffic,
I ask
if anyone else sees the same circle ****,
the masochism of the daily grind sign-up sheet
covered with signatures,
if all the bloodsuckers,
lions, and pallbearers
have any knowledge or drive of another direction.
Each night I accuse a different soul of a heinous lie.
Certainly,
somebody is responsible for the routine, the chasm,
the symphony of silent screams, fired in the name of
a lesser meaning.

The evenings never flow,
never dissolve like cigarette smoke,
they are a torture party
for invisible forces
that howl in my head,
reminding me of my loss and-
what feels like their perpetual victory.

Only hours ago
you were counting the notches of my spine,
you were whispering love
and grabbing handfuls of my hair,
I bit your ear,
you scratched my arm,
we made a melodious war
for guaranteed peace.

I think of you often,
a prisoner of disjointed sheets,
your amber eyes,
seeking foreign dreams in mine.

I swallow my longing to run back,
only to rest my head against a pillow
that smells heavily of your perfume.

The voices howl
and I don't sleep.